Never Will Be
by thisarylwren
Summary: Alternate ending to For You. Following the battle of Badon Hill, Lancelot confronts Guinevere on her motives for seducing Arthur. Mild ArthurLancelot slash. [complete]


**Title**: Never Will Be  
**Author:** AuroraNights  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Warnings:** This story deals with a SLASH (homosexual) relationship between Arthur and Lancelot. It does not get beyond a few kisses here and there, but if slash isn't your thing, then kindly hit the 'Back' button.  
**Summary:** Alternate ending to "For You" and song-fic to "Everybody's Fool" by Evanescence. Following the battle of Badon Hill, Lancelot confronts Guinevere on her motives for seducing Arthur. Mild Arthur-Lancelot slash.  
**Author's Notes:** I was inspired by a Keira Knightley quote: "My take on it was, if she has to screw Lancelot to get her way, that's what she'll do, and if she has to screw Arthur to get her way, that's what she'll do. She's very political. Very calculating." Then I was listening to the radio when "Everybody's Fool" came on and it was just one of those "EUREKA!" moments.

This story is an alternate ending to "For You". Although I think anyone with an understanding of the movie could read this fic as a stand-alone, I recommend people read "For You" first.

Reviews are cherished, reviewers adored. Thank you SO much to all the people who reviewed "For You." Your encouragement really got me going on this fic.

This fic was originally written in present-tense, but then a friend of mine, Finni, pointed out any sequels would have to be in present-tense as well! I hastily switched back to past. Not that there's anything wrong with present-tense, but present-tense abhors me. -grin-

* * *

NEVER WILL BE

Soundlessly, he drew a cloak over his shoulders and rose. His near-fatal wound slowed him, but he knew what he had to do and he had never been one to shy away from duty.

With dragging steps, mindful of his chest injury that began seeping anew, he walked the distance to where Guinevere sat in the Woad camp, by the dying fire. She heard his breathing and turned, with a warrior's speed. One hand flew automatically to her bow, but when she recognized the gaunt figure, she let her wrist fall. Her sculpted eyebrows stitched together, the very image of concern. "Lancelot. You should be resting."

Yet there was no true concern in her tone, and Lancelot's face contorted in disgust. "Do not pretend around me, Guinevere. Your tricks work no longer."

She regarded him with more interest. "Tricks?"

"I know what you have done." Sweat beaded on the knight's forehead with the effort of holding himself upright, yet he would not allow himself to sit before her. "We are not all blind."

Properly indignant, she stood and in the moonlight's gleam, Lancelot saw how she had managed to captivate so many. The face she turned upon him was one of perfect innocence and maiden naivety. Yet it was a lie, all of it. He knew only too well that she was no longer a maiden. "What have I done to anger you so?" Her tone was sweet, beguiling even.

"Stop that," he said coldly. "You know what you have done. And you have your victory now, do you not? Arthur fought for you and he would have given his life for you!" Sudden strength flowed through him and he straightened, physical pain temporarily forgotten. "Do not deny this, Guinevere, for I read you as easily as Arthur cannot. You never loved him. You only used him."

Her serenity stunned him to his very core. "Perhaps. But I have Britain."

_

* * *

_

"Dear Mithra!" Lancelot breathed violently. "Have you no shame?"

Far from shame, Guinevere merely looked amused. "That night before the battle," she said, "I went to him, to his bed. No, sweet Lancelot, he did not bid me leave. He welcomed me warmly."

Lancelot flinched as if slapped. Suddenly his reserves of strength were gone and he could hardly stand. His mind was agonized, despairing. The very night he confessed his love for Arthur, he had lain with another? With _her_?

Guinevere saw his pain and she smiled, for she understood a basic truth of humanity: men believe they are so strong, but they are so easy to hurt, so easy to manipulate. "Do not forget you told him to forget that night," she purred. "You, his most trusted adviser, counseled his heart to turn to me."

His fists clenched. "Witch!" he choked out. "You were eavesdropping!"

"I was merely passing by outside his rooms." She watched his reaction coolly, yet Lancelot's sharp eyes caught the glint of satisfaction in her eyes. And he was revolted, he who had driven his sword through hearts of men and separated heads from bodies without thought. The sweetened wickedness was too much.

He turned away. "When I told him that," he said through clenched teeth, "I thought he loved you. I thought _you_ loved him."

"Love," she said softly, the word sounding distasteful on her tongue. "What is love but a means to an end?"

Lancelot stared at her, his face darkening. "Such, I see, is beyond your comprehension, lady!" His final note ended on a tone of pure disgust.

She smiled prettily and her eyes settled on his chest, where the Saxon knife pierced. The bandages covering the wound were saturated once more with his blood. "You would have died for me."

"Never! Never for you, Guinevere!" the words burst from him quickly. "There is only one in all this world whom I would ever give my life for."

"Then why not let that Saxon kill me?" she asked coyly. Any other man would have melted. Lancelot somehow, did not.

"Not for the reason you think, lady," he said bitterly. "I was fooled by your charms once, Guinevere. I thought you loved him and could bring him happiness." He shook his head violently, despite the pain it caused him. "Once I told you I would have left you to die. How I wish now that it had been my choice."

"Dear Lancelot," she said dryly. "Is Arthur all that you've ever believed in?"

"My actions have always been for Arthur."

Guinevere's smile was gently mocking. "How noble of you."

_

* * *

_

Lancelot wove on his feet, but his words still held strength. "So you went to his bed that night." His words were flat, toneless. "You went not out of love, not even to consummate. You seduced him so he would stay in Britain."

"He stayed."

"Yes." His breaths came fast, were hitched. "He stayed and in doing so, bound us all."

"Then it is Arthur you should be angry with."

A vile string of curses burst forth from Lancelot's lips, the likes of which even Guinevere had never heard before. "Do not dare!" he cried, "He would not have stayed if you had not tricked him, made him believe he had an obligation to defend this damned island."

She nodded nonchalantly. "I gave him reason to stay."

"You gave him reason to die." Lancelot restrained his anger with effort. "He was sick of war, did you know that? All he wanted was peace. Peace!"

"And I have given him peace." Guinevere flashed him an indulgent smile and folded her legs gracefully, sitting back down by the fire. She offhandedly flung a piece of bark onto the flames. Behind her, Lancelot simmered. It was an insult and an insult of the highest form, to turn one's back on a knight as though the knight were not worthy of fear and respect.

"Why did you come tonight, Lancelot?"

He almost laughed, a laconic bark. "Why else?"

With shrewd eyes, she considered him before inclining her head, exposing her bare throat. "Then do it." It was not courage that drove her movements but assurance, for she knew Lancelot could not kill her. She was a woman and furthermore, she was unarmed. Always, the easiest enemy is a chivalrous knight.

He fairly trembled with frustration. "Not like this!"

Calmly, she lowered her head and fixed her brown eyes on him. "You spoke of reading me easily, but all your thoughts are revealed to me as well." She paused, smiling. "It is Arthur you want. Take him. I will not stand in your way. His use to my people is now gone."

Lancelot swallowed and said raggedly, "Do not demean Arthur by referring to him as a tool."

The smile on her face twisted. "All men are tools."

"And I?"

"You are Arthur's tool, Lancelot, even if you know it not." She laughed at the pain that crossed his handsome face. "Why else would you, hardly able to stand let alone fight, come to speak with me, to challenge me?"

He stared back at her blankly, unable to find words.

_

* * *

_

Lancelot remembered the first and only kiss he ever shared with Arthur. It had been so sweet and tender, that Lancelot had forced himself to walk away before his depression consumed him. He had kissed Arthur and known it would be their last. He had encouraged Arthur to go with Guinevere.

For nothing. All for nothing.

Tristan dead. For _nothing. _

No. Not for nothing. For a lie.

Shaking with renewed anger, Lancelot started to draw his sword, to force Guinevere to accept his challenge, but his strength had been severely depleted and he could hardly lift the blade. The steel suddenly felt as though it had been forged of the densest lead in all of Britain. Gasping, Lancelot tried again to coax strength from his arms, but the pain was overwhelming and the sword was so heavy...Guinevere's lips twitched.

"What goes here?"

Arthur, seemingly, had finally noticed them. The man strode quickly to the Woad camp, his pace hastening when he recognized Lancelot swaying on his feet. "Lancelot!" he was astonished. "You should not be out of bed." Nevertheless, his hands were gentle as he steadied the knight.

"Arthur," Lancelot hissed through clenched teeth. "Disown her. She has used you."

Arthur looked at him worriedly, dubiously. "You are burning with fever," he said gently, supporting the younger man. "And your bandage needs changing. You do not know what you are saying – " his words broke off as Lancelot struggled free of his hold.

"Then let me kill her!" declared he, every word pained. He had not the energy for an explanation.

"Lancelot!" Arthur cried, and reached for his arm. For once, Arthur was not fast enough. In any other battle, at any other time, he would be the faster of the two, but that night, Lancelot was driven by a purpose beyond himself. The younger knight stumbled, but with borrowed strength from Arthur's mere presence, he managed to work his sword free of sheath. He raised the blade, every muscle fiber protesting.

Sparks danced across his vision. He was so dizzy. The sword was so heavy. Exhaustion and pain wracked his form, his body finally collapsed, and he yielded to the consuming comfort of unconsciousness. The last thing he saw was Arthur's concerned face swimming before his.

_

* * *

_

He woke to see Arthur standing over him. Noticing his knight's return to consciousness, the older man's stern countenance wavered and then he granted Lancelot one of his rare smiles. "Thank God," he said fervently, and then, "Are you feeling better?" Yet the question was not perfunctory. Arthur meant it.

Lancelot's heart leapt. "Yes, my lord."

Arthur looked at him, a great battle waging on his features. Longing combated with reason, with sin, with the very fires of his Hell. A moment longer he hesitated, warring for control, but then he bent down and took Lancelot's lips in his own. The kiss was soft, the contact brief, but Lancelot was speechless. His mind raced – danced! Arthur had just kissed him.

"You are not in trouble, Lancelot," Arthur murmured, his deep voice soothing away Lancelot's pain. His hand lingered on Lancelot's face and traced over his lips. "Call me Arthur."

Gently Lancelot kissed Arthur's fingers. "If this is the greeting all your knights receive when they wake from unconsciousness, I must fall unconscious at your feet more often," he murmured wistfully, hazily.

"Ah, Lancelot," Arthur sighed, moving his hand to run through Lancelot's curls. Yet a moment later, he withdrew his hand and looked away, troubled. "I apologize, Lancelot. Oh God, how I was worried – no - I should not have done that."

"Why ever not?" The last note was unusually high-pitched, desperate, disappointed.

Arthur did not meet his eyes, _could_ not meet his eyes. "Guinevere."

The mere word of her name was enough. Lancelot closed his eyes to hold back sudden wetness. There was a great pain in his chest, but it was not from the Saxon dagger. His heart was breaking, torn asunder by the one he loves most. Yet when he spoke, his voice was flat, controlled, and astonished even himself. "Do you trust me, Arthur?"

If the question surprised Arthur, he did not show it. "With my life."

"With your life," Lancelot said unhappily. "But not with your heart."

Arthur swung back to him, his expression incredulous. He began to speak defensively, but Lancelot interrupted. "If you have ever trusted me, Arthur, I beg of you to consider my words." He took in a shallow breath and then began relating the events of the previous night. Throughout his narration, he avoided looking at Arthur's face, afraid of what he would see.

If Arthur did not believe him...no. He would not think of it. The thought was too unbearable even for him, the strongest of Arthur's knights.

At last he finished, but his eyes remained downcast.

Arthur, too, remained silent. The seconds stretched to minutes, the minutes to agonizing eternity. Then finally, Lancelot felt comforting fingers raising his chin and he looked up into Arthur's eyes. There was great sorrow within those hazel depths, but there was also trust. He began to hope again.

"That was not what I wished to hear, but if you accuse her of such, then I will believe you," Arthur said quietly, his voice measured. "I will speak with her tonight."

Overcome with emotion, a few stray tears slipped down Lancelot's face. He blushed furiously, but Arthur's thumb was gentle as he wiped them away. "For me?" he inquired softly.

"Everything. Everything that is mine is yours."

Their second kiss was tentative at first, and then blossomed. Lancelot was left gasping, awed. "Arthur," he breathed, entranced.

"Never doubt that you have my trust, Lancelot," Arthur whispered before pressing his lips against Lancelot's forehead. "It is yours."

**  
The End**

Well thank you very much if you made it all the way down here! Please leave a review; compliments make me happy, criticism helps me improve. All reviews are greatly appreciated. Also, I'm hoping to churn out a sequel sometime soon to tie up loose ends. Anyone have any thoughts or suggestions on what should happen to Guinevere? I'm leaning toward one of the following options:

**1**. Arthur sends/banishes Guinevere away.  
**2**. Arthur kills Guinevere and brings a rather nasty blood feud upon his head.  
**3**. Arthur marries Guinevere for the sake of uniting Britain and the three are forced to work something out.

Thanks for reading!


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